The Devil Inside (Wolf Guard Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 4.

That spark had been burning all night. What
started as a small flame in the pit of my stomach had ignited over night into a
forest fire, burning through my gut, destroying false thoughts and leaving ash
in its wake.

It was a frightening, sobering thought;
this hope, this promise of survival. I could very well be getting out. All this
planning, all these years to be rescued by his mistress.

I very nearly laughed at the irony.

Light eclipsing shadow, freedom through
terror. How to deal with the idea of an end to my servitude was causing serious
malfunctions in my brain. I could not cope with the thought of getting out. It
seemed so real at this point that I didn’t know how to feel, whether I should
be stoically calm or crazed in anticipation. It was all too much for my fragile
state of mind.

I sat for hours staring at the door, the
wall separating me from my escape, the exit from my incarceration. By the
morning, when the birds were starting their first early calls to each other I
had but one thought remaining:
I believed in Clara.

I could not stop myself. So many years
believing I was alone in my misery and with one two minute whispered
conversation I had grabbed a hold of the hope she offered and refused to let
go. She, like me, had been living a lie. This above anything gave me what I
needed; a reason to trust in another.

When his steps first sounded on the wooden
flooring coming in my direction, I scuttled, as I always did, towards the
corner of my cell. My body curled into its usual position, my hair covered my
face. But the reaction was slow, my movements laboured. My bodies own act of
defiance against its torturer. Small in thought but a triumph in my mind.

This hope was already going to get me
killed.

The locks swift turning refocused my
attention and I held my breath as he whistled his way into my room. He seemed
especially cheery this morning, perhaps his frustration had been worked out on
Clara for a change.

 I instantly felt a pang of guilt at the
thought. I may have been taught this level of selfishness, this need to save
myself above all others but even that thought was below me.

He grabbed my arm and dragged my body to
the hallway. He had not uttered a word which was odd,   but I assumed he had
other things on his mind. As long as he was preoccupied it was better for me.
My arm began aching slightly in his firm hold and I lifted my head to see our
destination. We were headed towards the kitchen and I brightened at the thought
of food. The bathroom door was shut as we passed but I stared at it anyway
hoping he would see my need for the toilet. If he did he ignored it and carried
on dragging me forward.

At some point I must have scraped my skin
against a rough piece of wood, the metallic smell of blood assaulted my nose.
Weak as though it had been in the air a while but enough to reach even my only
slightly stronger sense of smell. I couldn't feel the scrape but then again my
legs had a numbness to them that only the cold could deliver.

I smelt the kitchen before I saw it. The
aroma of meat sizzling and bread toasting brought a gurgle to my stomach. This
morning was turning out to be almost too good to be true. He had cooked.
For
me?
I wasn't sure but obviously as I had been let out, Clara had gone. The
thick rug was a soft respite on my skin before the wooden floors continued
through to the kitchen. The smells intensified as he pushed through the heavy
doors and my stomach ached in appreciation.

He sat me in a chair and placed a dish in
front of me. I frowned slightly at the sausage and eggs, waiting for the
punchline; I hadn't had a decent breakfast in four years.

"Eat up, baby girl." He
persisted.

I wasn't going to turn down a good meal. I
was still confused but as he watched me eat in something akin to glee I could
only guess on his intentions and in the end, my stomach overruled my brain.

He stood over me stroking my hair as I ate.
I'd managed maybe half of what he'd put on the plate and only that because he
kept forcing me to take another bite until he was satisfied I'd had enough. My
confusion grew.

"Do you need the bathroom now,
pumpkin?"

I swallowed involuntarily hoping I gave the
right answer. What that would be can, and often did, change on any given day.

"Yes please, Sir."

He smiled in response, slightly crooked
with an odd glint in his eyes. His arm gripped my bicep again and I resigned
myself to my normal mode of transport. Yet again I was dragged along the floor
towards the bathroom. If I had thought of myself as being of any consequence I
may have complained about this humiliating treatment.

On reaching the bathroom door he nudged it
open with his foot and pulled me in behind him. He let my body drop to the
floor and left me on the tiles. The cool surface took my attention, the
fullness of my stomach made me lazy. I idly stared at the corner tiles not
thinking of what was to come just, for once, enjoying the blissful ignorance I
was in. His voice confused me when it came, it took a while for me to come to
full consciousness.

"Oh dear. Well that just won't do will
it? Hmm what a mess."

I blinked and turned slowly to face him.
The scene behind his wicked grin came to me in flashes.

A pristine white bath stained in russet
tones.

A sliver of water spilling over the edge of
the overflowing tub.

A pool of water on the white tiled floor.
That same russet colour edging it's way towards me.

My eyes flicked to the walls surrounding
the tub.

A streak of vibrant red above the taps.

A splatter on the opposite wall.

A large hand print outlined in scarlet on
the edge of the bath, a matching one decorating the hot tap.

It took longer than it should of, I regret,
to fully understand the consequences of my actions. As the scene came in full
techni-colour reality and I noticed the long blonde strand of hair clinging to
the side of the tub, that truth came crashing down on my chest, a full blown
kick to the solar plexus that winded me and had me gasping for air.

He tapped towards me, a spring in his step.
Grabbed my frozen arm and pulled me up his body until I was standing against
him, supported by his thick forearm.

 I could see into the bath from this
height.

The lady in the water, floating yet not.
Her face remaining suspended above the coloured liquid, her body curved
slightly as if he'd held her down by her stomach as she'd thrashed. Her eyes
were open yet sight-less, a creamy film beginning to cover what I assumed would
have been bright blue. The skin at her fingertips and toes wrinkled and pruned
and turned white as it softened. A glaring slash across her neck. Ear to ear, a
devilish smile on an angels face.

I whimpered in his arms. My weakness
prevalent. I just wanted to turn away, I could not bear to face this woman in
my failure.

"Ssh, baby girl."

Those hands. Those hands although clean
were stained in her blood. They caressed my cheek as if attempting to console,
only to grab my jaw and turn it back towards the tub.

"She thought to take you from me. You
know I can't have that, Arya. She has been punished for her insolence.."
he paused in his ramblings, nothing he said would make it okay, nothing could
take away the death that now stained me. He lent closer and kissed the side of
my head as his grip tightened to the point of pain on my jaw."..as must
you be. Do you think I wouldn't know? How many times must I tell you? I
own
you,
little girl. It seems.. you need a reminder hmm?"

I don't think I heard his words. Or maybe I
heard I just wasn't listening. All I could see was Clara. Floating in the bath.
That red tinged water surrounding her. The sound of her voice, so desperate to
help me, as if she had owed me something. I owe her now, I owe her a life.

I felt one hand grip my hip hard, another
used to push me forward to grab onto the rim of the bath. I heard the smack of
a belt buckle on the tiles as it was dropped and the sound of a zip unfastening
echoed in the hollow room. My eyes widened and I stared into her dead eyes.
God
not like this.
I threw my head quickly to the side to avoid throwing up the
contents of my stomach over her and managed only just, to aim for the waste bin
under the sink. My heaves continued until nothing was left and he patiently
waited for me to finish. I assumed he had wanted a reaction from me, I'm sure
he's quite pleased that he's literally made me sick to my stomach. His hand
grabbed my hair and pulled me back into position as if reigning in a horse.

"Don’t
you look away from her, baby. I want you to see what you've done. What you made
me do to punish you. Every time you feel my cock bottom out inside you I want
you to scream at her these words: I don't want to be saved."

I could hear the sneer in his words. A tear
dripped into the tub, only to be swallowed up by the rusted pool. As I felt him
force his way inside me I never, not once, looked away from those eyes. An
apology searing from my gaze as he defiled her spirit.

Chapter 5.

The weeks following Clara's death were
harrowing. As my body repaired the damage caused by his punishment, I wiled the
days away in isolation. It was that isolation that troubled me, with only my
thoughts to concentrate on I had too much time to remember the hope that had
lasted just one night.

The bruises left by his possession twinged
at every movement. I welcomed the pain though, it was a reminder of what I had
caused.

Such devastation could only bring penance.

It had occurred to me during this time that
something was different about him. I felt incredibly stupid for not realising
it earlier. Had I really thought the man had enough cameras to monitor my every
move? How infantile.

What he definitely wasn't, was a werewolf.
He was over six foot by an inch or two. Bulky in stature but not muscled, broad
across the shoulders with a paunch to his stomach that instantly signified
non-wolf. The metabolic system of wolves so advanced that excess fat was almost
impossible to achieve.

The one obvious reason though, was the
simple fact that he aged. His black hair streaked with grey and wrinkled
forehead announced a man nearing fifty. Should I ever find my wolf, shifting
would slow my ageing to almost immortality. The regenerative abilities of
wolves so complete that I could conceivably remain forever young. What a
torturous gift.

I have run that thought through my mind
over and over again.

What is he?

He had seemed so human, was exactly that in
so many ways, but there is something else to him, I have no doubt now.

We had returned to a routine well known
within two weeks of that hellish morning. His hands running over the marks he'd
left on my back and hips with a sick sort of achievement. Clara's body was gone
the following morning and I could not even fathom what he had done with her.
Her clothes were still here though, hung from a nail in my prison. A statue of
warning, a shrine to the fallen, a tormenting presence of remembrance.

Her absence was felt keenly.

 In the darkest hour of the night, when the
shadows consumed the light, my eyes fixated on the obscured clothing and her
whispered words filled my empty soul, repeated soundlessly from my lips.

It was one morning, three weeks 'after
Clara', that I caught a flash of light from her hanging clothes. My cell was
mostly a muddy grey, like the sky before rainfall, apart from early morning
when the sun hit the tiny window high in the outside wall.

I had learnt well from that day. My eyes
betrayed nothing and my stance remained the same. I could wait. I had nothing
but time.

It was maybe a week later when I had been
let out for the day and he was returning me to my room for the evening. He
would be leaving for a few hours, a community meeting, a joke by his
invitation. I was colder than normal, the weather turning from mild end Summer
to Autumns chilly start. I was slightly anxious to be alone and maybe this was
shown too evidently. He peered at me curiously as he dropped me to the floor.

"You have something on your mind,
pet?"

I crinkled my brow, I didn't have to fake
the confusion, I was still desperate to figure out the puzzle that he was.

"No, Sir."

He raised an eyebrow and hummed in
response. His eyes flicked to the clothes hanging on the wall and he smiled at
me.

"Just you remember that then, there's
to be nothing on your mind except me, right baby?"

His warning was clear and my frustration
grew,
how does he do it?

"Of course, Sir."

He bent and stroked a rough hand over my
thigh whispering, "good little pet," before locking me in for the
night.

I froze in position for an hour, his
echoing taps long since gone, until my curiosity overwhelmed my fear. I half
slid, half crawled to the wall where her clothes hung, peering at the spot the
light had revealed. I pushed myself up with a grunt, waiting for the pins and
needles to subside seemed a drawn out agony. Cold fingers felt around the legs
of the jeans she had worn, one side seeming heavier than the other.

My breath caught as I ran my finger over a
raised hardness in the hem. A split in the stitching allowed my finger to poke
inside. It was some sort of metal, steel maybe, solid and cold to the touch. I
ran my finger along the bottom edge and hissed in glee when I felt the tell
tale sharp pain.

Oh Clara, it seems I keep owing you.

I pulled at the stitching some more, it
gave way with a few tugs and the knife dropped to the cement floor with a
heavenly sound. I arranged the jeans back to a similar position, hiding the now
ruined hem. I only needed it to pass muster for a moment, a passing glance
would reveal nothing.

I picked up the knife and stroked the blade
lovingly. The pattern on the steel made my smile turn evil in its nature. I
know this steel, this saviour in weapon form. My fathers passion, a blade so
fine it was art in motion. His knives long since removed from the house had a
story to every single one. A collection of history, the envy of warriors
worldwide.

This one was small. A few inches long, not
much wider than my finger, but those markings were a watery song written in
lines.

Damascus steel. My father had been a fan, a
collector.

It was like one big circle of fate.

I held the blade close to my chest, my eyes
closed, that smile never leaving my lips. Remembering the stories he told, the
wars of years gone past. Crusades for religion, for freedom, for Kings. How he
would build such wondrous tales until, in my excitement I could not hold still
as he spoke.

My father was a strong man. Patient, fair
and gruff. A warrior by right but a father and husband first.

I think he would be disappointed in me.

I failed so many times. I had allowed so
many things. I hope he knows that this is the end. Clara was a wake up call, no
more waiting, this is as good as it's going to get.

I ran through scenarios in my head, hiding
the knife is my main problem, my nightie concealed nothing and there was
nothing in this room. My eyes flicked to Clara's clothing and I released the
knife from my tight grip with a sigh. I did not want to part with it so soon
but better that then have him find it. I took the leg of her jeans in hand and
pushed the knife back into place, the ruined hem held precariously but it was
the best I could do right now.

I came to a firm resolution; No more. No
more will I submit to his wishes, allow my body to be so debased. By the time
he returns to my cell a new creature will sit in my place. That dark mass of
swirling malignancy that had been so tempered by Clara's death was now alive
and well. Growing, thriving, multiplying on its malevolent path. Invading my
thoughts with death and ruination. My head was full of slaughter, my hands
itching to cause such butchery.

This is what he's done to me, I am a
product of his affliction. He will be begging on his knees when I am done. This
monster inside is clawing at its chains, roaring it's way to freedom, pulling
at its restraints until a link snaps and it's one inch closer to the surface.

There's a thought that passes through my
brain, I hear it and kick it back out quickly.

The thought however leaves me with more
fear then he ever gave me. A thought of why my wolf hasn't shown, a thought of
what she'll be if she arrives.

My hand shakes; tremors in the muscles.

Could I control that?

I can't even control my life.

Lights flicker over the wall. Headlights
beaming through the narrow window. He's back. My eyes flick to the jeans again
hoping the hem has stayed in place. I calm myself by breathing slowly, I am
just waiting for him to return that's all, nothing else.

The knife gives me peace in my turbulent
world. I am laying on the floor, my eyes lost in the wall to my right by the
time he opens the cell door. He looks in on me but nothing else. He leaves and
locks the door, his retreating footsteps lull me to sleep.

I dream of wars from long ago, Knights in
battle and wolves in carnage. I dream of knives in hands that plunge and slice
and of claws that gouge and gut. I dream of girls with red hair dripping with
blood and animals with red eyes and teeth full of meat.

And I dream of my father, standing tall and
strong, a face full of pity but eyes full of abhorrence.

A tear falls in my sleep before the monster
takes over, a snarl and a growl and a paw full of claws. A swipe of the wrist
and my father's no more.

I wake in the morning with a promise.

The chains do not come off. Not until I am
no longer so weak.